


Imperium Brew

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Coffee, Cullen is Obvious, Dorian can't even, F/M, Failboats, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Insubordinate Employees, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Past Dorian Pavus/Felix Alexius, Past Relationship(s), Romance, cullrian - Freeform, memorial, very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:33:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11420004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: The handsome, pulled-together customer always orders a half-caf Red-Eye, and has since day one. That the owner of the café—who absolutelyhatesholding down the beverage station—is always there to make itfor himis neither here nor there. Irredeemable fluff. Prompt in end-notes.





	Imperium Brew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers for the game, I suppose.

 

“. . . and you, as well, Mrs. Murchison. We greatly appreciate your continued patronage,” Dorian managed to say without even a hint of irony or strident over-politeness as the snobby—and if _Dorian_ was of that opinion, then the woman was certainly quite up her own arse—middle-aged accountant collected her specially made, half-caf, triple-foam, extra whip cappuccino and swanned toward the exit. She nearly knocked over the shorter of two entering customers, a woman and a small child, with her wheeled suitcase.

 

Of course, she didn’t stop to excuse herself or see if the pair were all right.

 

Dorian sniffed. _Some people_ , he thought, meaning to turn the beverage station back over to Sera—to say Mrs. Murchison and Sera loathed each other was like saying water was slightly damp—when the customer behind Mrs. Murchison stepped up smartly, already speaking.

 

“Yes, I _do_ apologize, but when I placed my order, I forgot to, er, ask for, er, half-caf,” the customer said distractedly, while squinting up at the menu board of gourmet sandwiches and snacks that _Imperium Brew_ offered and made on-premises. He seemed incredibly distracted, for all that he looked remarkably pulled together in his chrome-grey, three-piece suit. His brassy-blond hair was neatly, precisely styled, combed back from a high, clear brow. His face was tanned, strong-featured, and conventionally handsome, with attractive crows’ feet bracketing his pale blue eyes and thinnish mouth. One eyebrow, a few shades darker than that brassy-perfect hair, quirked up as he squinted even more at the menu board behind the cash registers and to the left. “Yes, er, half-caf on that Red-Eye, please. Also, er . . . would it be too late to add a cinnamon chip scone to my order?”

 

Dorian exchanged a glance with Sera, who didn’t smirk, for once, merely shrugged elegantly, turning away toward the register—which Dorian had been handling until Mrs. Murchison had come in, at six fifty-eight a.m., as per usual—to take up _his_ usual spot at the till.

 

“I’ll ring up that scone right over here, sir,” she called with weary patience as Dorian set about making the Red-Eye quickly. Fast, though he was, on the beverage station, and accurate, he rather despised making beverages that weren’t alcoholic in nature.

 

A fine state of affairs that was, too, for a man who owned a café in a city that had made its well-known name on its coffee and cafés.

 

Meanwhile, the customer, still staring up at the menu with that annoyingly endearing squint, drifted back toward the cash register, nearly knocking over the same woman and child that Mrs. Murchison had. Only, at the woman’s offended squawk, the customer whirled around and began apologizing profusely.

 

Huffing, Dorian finished the Red-Eye— _half-caf_ , indeed . . . rendering the entire drink _completely_ pointless, to _Dorian’s_ way of thinking, but the customer was _always_ right . . . _especially_ when they were wrong—and was just placing it on the tall pick-up table beyond the beverage station, when the customer, flushed and chagrined, but holding his scone, slunk over. He looked perfect and pathetic, all at once. But at least he wasn’t squinting, anymore.

 

Though, the squint hadn’t really detracted from that compelling, strong face, Dorian admitted to himself as he started to turn back to the espresso machine to get started on the next drinks. A macchiato and a child’s hot cocoa, two drinks he could make in his most hungover sleep.

 

But as he started to turn, the customer, still sounding distracted and absent, claimed his drink with a quiet, “thank you, Dorian,” and immediately took a sip. For a moment, Dorian was torn between shock and disdain, respectively. Most customers, despite the plainly legible nametags, rarely bothered to note the names on them and, of course, they almost always _immediately_ took big sips of the molten beverages which they had literally _watched_ their server make. Complete with gusts and gouts of steam.

 

Huffing again, Dorian nodded, not bothering to say anything that would be lost under the customer’s swearing as he nursed a scalded tongue. But, as he started the next drinks, he noted that not only was there no swearing—or spitting, thank goodness—but the customer hadn’t moved on, either to the small self-service station with the napkins, sugar, and such, or out the door.

 

When he glanced up in the middle of making the macchiato—the hot cocoa was already done—it was to see that steely, blue-eyed squint on him, curious and surprised.

 

“ _Wow_ ,” the customer said almost breathlessly, and Dorian blinked, then flushed, then frowned.

 

“I . . . beg your pardon?” he inquired uncertainly, as his hands slowed to a stop. The customer _also_ flushed and looked down, at his Red-Eye, and took another sip that should’ve immolated his tongue.

 

“I . . . er . . . mean, _wow! What a Red-Eye!_ By far, the best I’ve _ever_ had! Mmm-mm! Nummy!” he said quickly, his eyes widening as his gaze darted down to the rack of pre-packaged snacks _Imperium_ also sold. Dorian, still a bit pink about the face, hurriedly finished the macchiato.

 

“Thank you, sir. We do our best to _be_ the best, at _Imperium Brew_. We _do_ _so_ _like it_ when our customers return regularly,” he said quietly, nearly fumbling the completed drink as that gaze, palpable as squinty-blue sunshine, landed on his face again.

 

“Yes, I . . . this shop has come _highly_ recommended by several of my colleagues, and . . . I’ve, er, been meaning to stop in and sample your wares.”

 

That hung rather strangely in the air. So that even _Dorian_ couldn’t quite tell if the awful double entendre was intended or not.

 

So, he didn’t risk a glance up at the customer, merely placed the completed beverages, in their cardboard sleeves, on the pick-up table.

 

“I, er, mean, ah . . . I’ve been meaning to stop in and . . . try your coffee. Yes,” the customer finally amended in the weird, charged silence. Dorian smiled at and thanked the woman who took her macchiato and her child’s cocoa—with a narrow-eyed glare for Mr. Half-Caf Red-Eye. The man blushed, and aimed a painful and apologetic smile at her, which she ignored. Her child, a small, quiet, wide-eyed boy whom Dorian could only barely see from his vantage point, waved solemnly at Red-Eye as his mother tugged him away.

 

Mr. Half-Caf Red-Eye waved back belatedly.

 

When the door dinged shut behind mother and child, Dorian’s gaze drifted back to Red-Eye, who was stealing quick, curious glances at him, while sipping at his beverage.

 

“Your tongue must be lined with asbestos,” Dorian noted almost huffily, only for those pale eyes to cease darting and focus on his face steadily, a crooked smile quirking the right corner of Red-Eye’s mouth.

 

“Oh—er, well. Perhaps. It’s just . . . I’m military—well, I _was_. Retired from that, now. But I spent most of my life guzzling molten-hot, objectively _vile_ coffee as fast as I could, of a morning, so I wouldn’t miss exercises or duties.” Red-Eye shrugged self-deprecatingly, his crooked smile quirking up a bit more. It made his strong, somber face almost boyish. “After twenty-three years of a habit, even a free-wheeling civilian life can’t quite break one of it. Even when _you_ —er, _your coffee_ , is entirely worth savoring.”

 

Dorian found himself blushing again, and looked down at the espresso maker. He automatically began to wipe the large, industrial—already practically spotless—machine down with the ease and speed of practice. “Well. One supposes that after nearly a quarter of a century of military-grade bean-water, _anything_ would seem ambrosial,” he replied without inflection, his perfectly-shaped brows drawn in a bit.

 

“I—right, then. I’m . . . apparently an incredible ass at giving a compliment,” Red-Eye said, half-sighing, half-laughing. Dorian sniffed and said nothing, sweeping some spilled grounds into his hand, then dumping them in the rubbish bin under the counter. “This is literally the best cup of coffee I’ve had in my entire life. Which may not be saying much, but . . . I would happily drink this if it was totally decaf, just for the taste.”

 

Brows shooting up, Dorian glanced at Red-Eye to see the man turning away, his smile fading a bit. “Anyway, thank you very much for the lovely coffee. Have a nice day.”

 

“You, as well, Red-Eye,” Dorian blurted before the man was out of earshot, and in a strange and hesitant voice that made him blush for a third time. When Red-Eye glanced back at the beverage station, from halfway to the exit, Dorian was already back to obsessively cleaning the pristine espresso machine. “Half-caf, indeed! Good luck staying awake, and . . . don’t be a stranger.”

 

That blue-sunlight gaze searched Dorian’s already-warm face again and he could all but see that crooked smile. Sniffing, he refused to look up.

 

“Indeed. I shan’t. And it’s _Cullen_ , by the way. ‘Til later . . . Dorian.”

 

A few moments after that, the bell above the door dinged and Dorian chanced a peek up. Mr. Red-Eye— _Cullen_ —was just disappearing past the plate glass window, toward the intersection of Ninth Avenue and High Street Boulevard. The last Dorian saw of him was the bright flash of that brassy, perfect hair in the overcast sunlight.

 

“Huh,” Dorian exhaled, rather disconcerted and shaken up for absolutely no reason he cared to entertain. Sera drifted over from the register, ready to take her place at the beverage station again.

 

“ _There’s_ a return customer, if ever I saw one,” she said dryly. To which Dorian replied:

 

“Huh.”

 

“Yep,” Sera went on brightly, her tone far too innocent to be believable. “I guess the old sayin’s true, then: Some really _do_ like it _hot_.”

 

“ _Huh_.” Dorian absently stepped out of her way, not quite noticing the knowing look she gave him as she took her place in front of the espresso machine that dwarfed her.

 

In fact, he didn’t even really process what she’d said for an additional two minutes, finally whipping around after ringing up a cheerful regular who’d bought a bottle of lime Fizz-E and two cranberry-orange muffins, as always.

 

“ _What?!_ ” he demanded of his mischievous and quite insubordinate employee, who giggled and snorted so loud, the few eat-in customers all turned to look. Flustered and flushing, Dorian crossed his arms. “Did you just _imply_ that he—that _I_ —wait . . . _what_?! Was that _innuendo_?”

 

Another snort and a flash of her grey-blue eyes. “Nope! It was up the front!”

 

Dorian flushed even deeper, facepalming and shaking his head. Then he opened his mouth to chastise Sera—not that that’d _ever_ worked, but one day, it just might . . . Dorian was an eternal optimist—and found himself at a loss for any words that wouldn’t give her more of the ammunition she seemed to think she had.

 

He huffed once more, and glowered down at the cash register, ignoring her continued snorting and guffawing. Then, Krem was hurrying in, six minutes late—as per usual, really—jabbering excitedly about his girlfriend, Merrill’s showing the night before. As if Dorian and Sera, and most of _Imperium’s_ other employees hadn’t been there to give Krem and Merrill support on the opening night of her first big art show.

 

Dorian rolled his eyes and fought a fleeting smile, holding down the register for another few minutes until Krem was ready to take over.

 

A few minutes after _that_ , rush-hour was in full and sudden swing. Also, as usual.

 

Dorian barely even _thought_ about Cullen Red-Eye during the rest of his long workday. Mightn’t have even thought of him _at all_ , if not for Sera’s occasional knowing glances, and the whispers hissing back and forth between her and Krem—and, eventually, the later crew, including normally sweet and oblivious Cole—like the machinations of particularly absurd and asinine cobras!

 

#

 

The next morning, it was, of course, Mrs. Murchison’s imminent arrival that saw Dorian at the beverage station early and with nervous alacrity.

 

Krem, on time, for once—he only ever was to _open_ the shop, but it was something, at least—and manning the cash register, was all a-smirk and kept stealing glances at Dorian.

 

“You’re looking especially handsome, today, Boss,” he finally noted, as a man—small, somewhat nervous, who always got the same drink (an iced, medium Americano whether rain or shine), like so many regulars seemed to, at this hour—paid with cash and left before Krem could make change. Also, as so many tended to at this time of morning. Dropping the surplus in the tip mug, Krem bent his rakish, flirty grin on Dorian, no doubt noting the way the latter low-key smoothed his business casual-wear. “Is there some special occasion I should know about? Or are you just trying to make the amazing scenery even better?”

 

“What? Oh, _do_ refrain from brown-nosing so obviously, Cremisius. _Need_ there be a reason for me to _not_ want to look like the wind just blew me in the door and deposited me behind the counter?” Dorian huffed. Krem’s brows lifted gently and the younger man laughed, warm and inviting, as he gave Dorian a pointed once-over.

 

“Boss, I’ve known you for three years, now, and you’ve never _once_ looked anything less than pulled-together and sharp. It’s just that, _this_ morning, you look . . . _extra_ pulled-together and sharp.” That rakish, flirty grin widened and deepened with unhidden appreciation. “Is all this extra-handsome and devastating hotness for lil ol’ me?”

 

Now, _Dorian_ bent a look on _Krem_ , who chuckled and held up his square, blunt hands peaceably. “Can’t blame a bloke for tryin’.”

 

“Actually, one can. I believe it’s called sexual harassment, Cremisius. We held a seminar, and everything.”

 

“Ah.” Krem waved a dismissive hand. “Can’t help it that I’ve got great vision _and_ great taste in men, but no appreciable filter.”

 

“Ugh.” Doran rolled his eyes. “You’re rather alarmingly shameless this morning, even for _you_.”

 

“ _Just_ this morning? I must be slipping in my old age.” Krem chuckled again, then sighed. “Really, though, you do look particularly divine, today, Boss. Any particular reason?”

 

“As I said, certainly not. Why would there be?” With yet another sniff, Dorian started making Mrs. Murchison’s drink as the door dinged and he heard the familiar roll-bump-grind of her wheeled suitcase.

 

Krem simply hummed and rang up her purchase and handed her exact change—she was one of the few who _always_ waited for it and never tipped—before wishing her a good day. Without even a nod of acknowledgement, she strode to the pick-up table, then collected the drink as Dorian set it down.

 

When _that_ worthy was on her way—she seemed to be in quite the mood, this morning, though, thankfully, there were no unfortunate children for her to almost run down on her way out—Krem immediately took up their previous exchange. “Well, it’s just that you’re dressed even fancier than you were at Merrill’s show the other night.”

 

Crooking an eyebrow as the bell above the door dinged again—a quick glance showed another regular, who always got a bottled water, a satsuma, and madeleines—Dorian was not relieved and _certainly_ not disappointed at the distinct lack of brassy-blond hair. He didn’t even bother to obsessively straighten his charcoal button-down shirt and grey slacks, just . . . wiped down the gleaming espresso maker reflexively. “Well, you _did_ specify that business casual would be acceptable for the showing.”

 

“And it certainly was, Boss. You turned at least as many heads as Merrill’s work, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.” Krem hummed again, straightening the display of gourmet chocolate bars near the register. “Even my buddy, Grim, asked after you. And he never says peep about anything!”

 

“Hmm. . . .”

 

“Bull showed some interest, too, actually,” Krem went on thoughtfully. Dorian paled, his eyes gone wide and his wandering attention returned front and center.

 

“You mean that giant maniac who raised you?”

 

“That’d be the one.” Krem laughed.

 

“The giant maniac who’s _married?_ One presumes to that lanky, red-haired fellow that was on his arm all evening?”

 

“Yep.” Krem nodded proudly. “For eleven years, now. Since just before they took me in. And they’ve been together almost _twice_ that long, sappy old geezers. They’ve got an . . . _arrangement_ , of sorts, though, if you’re interested.” Krem made a vaguely sly face. “Their marriage is open as long as they share the . . . cameo-appearances and guest-stars. And I happen to know that if you really _are_ interested, they’d welcome _you_ with open, er, arms.”

 

For a moment, Dorian could only gape. Then, he sputtered out an offended: “Oh, for the love of—they _are_ , for all intents and purposes, your _parents_ , Cremisius! It’s hardly _your_ place to score them . . . _paramours_ , to put it discreetly!”

 

Krem watched Dorian sputter and turn pink, his light-brown eyes lit-up with mirth. “Well. They were my first and most reliable wingmen. Sometimes, I like to return the favor. And, anyway, I figured if Merrill and _I_ weren’t to your taste, Bull and Demian _might_ be. You’re, er, _definitely_ to theirs.”

 

There was a question there, along with a frank, appreciative once-over, that Dorian refused to acknowledge, let alone answer. “I see, now, where you get your boldness and lack of boundaries from. Hammered into you at an impressionable age—such a shame!”

 

“Aww. . . .” Krem tipped Dorian a wink. “Just puttin’ it out there, y’know? Seems a waste that such a gorgeous guy like you is just sittin’ on a shelf, collectin’ dust.”

 

“Your concern is touching, but I assure you, I’m _not_ collecting dust, as you so charmingly put it.”

 

“Well. Maybe not _anymore_ ,” Krem said obliquely, waggling his eyebrows just as the door dinged. Dorian didn’t even have to look over to spot that tell-tale, brassy blond as it approached the counter.

 

“This . . . is _not_ a conversation we’re having anymore, Cremisius,” he lightly, pleasantly, and _firmly_ informed his employee, who waggled his eyebrows once more, before turning to greet Cullen. Dorian got the espresso going and set about making the half-caf Red-Eye. By the time Cullen, cinnamon chip scone in hand, meandered to the pick-up table, his Red-Eye was steaming patiently in its cardboard sleeve.

 

“You’re . . . incredibly fast,” Cullen—looking rather . . . _distracting_ in a pale-grey three-piece, this morning—noted with a small laugh, taking up his very hot beverage and a long first sip that made Dorian wince. “Mm. And delicious. Er—I mean! Not-delicious! You, that is! _You’re_ not delicious at all!”

 

“Am I not?” Dorian asked innocently, widening his eyes before batting them with wounded coquettishness at the other man. “Not even a _little_?”

 

Cullen’s smile was limp and pained. “Well, I wouldn’t presume to speak on _that_ . . . it’s just that I meant the _coffee_ is delicious and _you_ are . . . skilled and efficient at making it.”

 

“Damned by faint praise though I suddenly feel, that’s true enough, I suppose. Though, only when it doesn’t mean sacrificing the quality of my work for a quantity of output,” Dorian said, wincing again even as he said it. He was rather keenly aware that, when even slightly flustered, he could come across as up his own arse as the Mrs. Murchisons of the world. Perhaps even more so. “By which, I, er, mean . . . thank you. It’s . . . always nice to be appreciated.”

 

“And I do,” Cullen said softly, his tone so earnest, that Dorian finally met the other man’s direct gaze. His crooked smile was tense and a bit tired, but sincere. “I _really_ appreciate you.”

 

Dorian’s eyes widened for real and his brows lifted in surprise. Cullen blinked, then _pinked_ , his gaze dropping.

 

“Oh, dear. I’m not at all facile with words or speaking or . . . _not_ coming across like a jackass, today. What I mean is, I appreciate your wonderful establishment and amazing coffee. Really, that Red-Eye got me through a day that should’ve killed me, by rights.” He chuckled ruefully then sighed, his eyes ticking to Dorian’s once more, wary, but hopeful.

 

Hopeful of what, Dorian chose not to speculate, even as he fought not to smooth his best shirt. “Ah. Even at half-caf?”

 

Cullen’s smile made a small comeback as he toasted Dorian with his Red-Eye. “Even at half-caf. This is some . . . wickedly powerful brew you’re slinging.”

 

That surprised a delighted chuckle out of Dorian. “Brilliant! Felix’d be delighted to hear you say so. He spent literally a year tracking down the _best and strongest_ beans in the world. Dragged me hither and yon, sampling coffee in all manner of . . . _exotic_ locales. I quite forgot what it was to need sleep. Or what a simple cup of tea tasted like. Not that his diligence and my forbearance didn’t pay off in the end, I suppose.” Glancing around him at the shop that’d been Felix’s humble, but long-held dream and final success, Dorian’s smile turned a bit self-mocking. “And to think _I_ wanted to open a wine bar! I’d have likely drank all my stock then gone straight out of business in three months! Good thing Felix could be so . . . persuasive, when he was of a mind.”

 

Cullen grinned, more crooked and boyish than ever. “Felix? Business partner?”

 

Dorian looked down for a moment, before cranking up his smile a little brighter, out of habit. “Husband,” he said softly, then added, when Cullen’s grin was replaced by a startled and regretful expression, “well, _late_ husband. And, yes . . . my business partner, as well.”

 

“Ah,” Cullen said reluctantly, looking down again, seeming uncertain and uncomfortable, now. His hand was all but clenched around his cup. “Ah. That’s . . . ah.”

 

The silence that spun out between them was less than easy, and Dorian didn’t know what to fill it with or how to change it. He fidgeted and stared at Cullen’s bright hair, while Cullen frowned down at his drink, absently sipping from it every few seconds, as if he needed something to do with his mouth, more than he needed the caffeine.

 

“I’m . . . _so_ sorry for your loss, Dorian. I can’t even imagine,” he finally said, his blue-sunlight gaze coming to rest solemnly on Dorian’s face. And though it was difficult to meet that candid gaze, Dorian managed to, and even found a small, grateful smile.

 

“Thank you, Cullen,” he replied, then shrugged as if the greatest loss in his life was a negligible occurrence. “It . . . was nearly five years ago. Leukemia. Not a lengthy battle, but Felix stuck around long enough to see his dream get out of the red and into the black, so . . . _I_ , at least, consider that something of a win.”

 

“It certainly is. And I’m sure that he’d be _very_ proud of you and of what you’ve accomplished. That he _is_ proud, wherever he is.” Cullen’s somber eyes were very intent on Dorian’s, as if trying to will Dorian into believing just that.

 

“I . . . thank you,” Dorian said again, and Cullen’s smile returned, small, but genuine.

 

“I just call it like I see it.” He shrugged and cleared his throat gruffly. “It’s the soldier in me, I suppose.”

 

“In that case, I’m pleasantly surprised to find soldiers a kinder and more sensitive lot than I’d been led to believe,” Dorian said, his face heating at such an obvious bit of flattery. Despite his customary wit and charm, he was, it was clear, out of practice when it came to complimenting attractive men on their sterling qualities.

 

Cullen laughed. “Yes . . . kind and sensitive. That’s . . . certainly _one_ way to describe soldiers as a group.”

 

His tone was wry, but his expression, hopeful and earnest again, was anything but. And those blue-sunshine eyes were so very steady and bright on Dorian’s. . . .

 

“Anyway!” Cullen suddenly exclaimed, glancing at his wristwatch—who even wore those, anymore? Even Dorian’s father-in-law Gereon, the original Luddite, had finally caved and started carrying his mostly unused smartphone around to keep the time and check the weather—and swearing under his breath. “I need to dash. I’ve got a literal mountain of work to get done before a time-vampire of a meeting at noon. Er,” he looked up at Dorian again, distracted and flushed, “I . . . will very likely see you tomorrow, around this time.”

 

It sounded like a promise, not a question, and was almost grave in its intensity. Dorian nodded once, holding that gaze even as he, too, flushed.

 

“I shall look forward to it, Cullen.”

 

That crooked, considering grin flashed out again, then Cullen was hurrying toward the exit, with a salute for Krem, who waved cheerily back. Once Cullen was gone, on his way toward Ninth and High Street at a good clip, Krem turned to watch Dorian watch their customer go.

 

“Right, then,” the younger man drawled, smirking, no doubt, “I’ll just tell the ‘rents not to hold their breaths, shall I?”

 

“Don’t even _think_ I won’t have you replaced in a heartbeat, Cremisius. There’re _at least_ _several_ semi-trained chimpanzees at the local zoo who’d _love_ your job.” Dorian sniffed.

 

“Aw, you can’t fire me, if I quit, first, Boss. Plus, I’ll shit-talk this place to every chimp I know, and _then_ where will you be?”

 

“Forced to hire help who’s actually competent?”

 

“Meh, competence is, as competence does, Boss-man, but _me_? I’m one of a kind. Irreplaceable. There isn’t another Cremisius Bull-Lavellan in the entire _world_.”

 

“Hmph. Promises, promises.” A moment later, the door dinged and Ms. Fizz-E-and-cranberry-orange-muffins flitted in, blithe and beaming. Krem, notorious flirt that he was, set about living up to that well-earned title.

 

Dorian took the opportunity to turn his overheated face away from the tactless little guttersnipe, even as he fought against and lost to the ridiculous grin that co-opted it. Meanwhile, Krem charmed the customer and sent her on her way blushing and happy, and chuckling as she went. Krem, of course, stared at her arse with obvious appraisal.

 

Thankfully, said arse was distracting _enough_ that Krem also let the matters of his kinky parents _and_ Cullen Red-Eye lie, thereafter.

 

#

 

The next morning, Dorian was dressed much as he always was—which was to say with style and particular care, but no specially-chosen look.

 

Nonetheless, Cullen’s direct eyes studied him with gentle appreciation, as he appropriated his freshly-made, half-caf Red-Eye.

 

And, though he didn’t stay to chat—nor did a swamped Dorian have the _time_ to chat—his admiring gaze lingered on Dorian with palpable intensity, for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, before finally toasting him with his Red-Eye and wishing him a good day.

 

“You, as well, Cullen,” Dorian murmured to Cullen’s broad back, not certain whether he hoped the man heard or not. Then the door dinged, Cullen strode west, as usual, and Dorian was submerged in the usual rush-hour madness. And though his hands were focused and present, and automatically crafted the drinks Cole stammered out—with the components in the _wrong bloody order_ , as always, but Dorian was resigned and used to that—his mind was, for once, entirely elsewhere.

 

#

 

“ _You_ look absolutely _dreadful_ , Cullen.”

 

“Careful, Dorian, or you’ll turn my innocent head with all this gratuitous flattery.”

 

Dorian huffed and Cullen smirked wearily as he plucked his beverage from the pick-up table, taking his usual long sip of the steaming coffee. As was par for the course, lately, Dorian watched his customer with some concern, frowning as he took in the other man’s appearance.

 

As always, Cullen looked neat and arranged _just so_ , not a single brassy hair out of place. But his ruggedly handsome face was a bit pale under his tan, and certainly tired. There were faint gray circles beneath his somewhat reddened eyes and his brow was furrowed.

 

He seemed, overall, absent and anxious. And _exhausted_.

 

Hardly the way anyone deserved to start the second Saturday in a spring that’d dragged its heels this year. Though, considering that Cullen had had to start the past _five_ Saturdays this way, Dorian supposed he understood both the mood _and_ the exhaustion.

 

Both were beginning to worry him.

 

“While your work ethic is admirably puritanical, one wonders what your employers are thinking working such a dedicated employee to the veritable bone!” Dorian groused, rather incensed on Cullen’s behalf. The other man chuckled, staring at his Red-Eye with some surprise. Ever attuned to his customers, Dorian frowned even more. “What? Has it gone cold?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, er . . . not at all. Still piping hot,” Cullen reassured him, smiling thoughtfully, before taking another experimental sip. “It’s just . . . is this. . . ?”

 

“Your usual? Of course,” Dorian said. Cullen blinked, then laughed a little.

 

“Ah. That explains it. And how telling is it that I can even tell the difference just by the taste? Er . . . I actually ordered a Black-Eye, this morning.”

 

Dorian’s brows lifted in surprise, even as he flushed and blanched. “A . . . oh. Dear me, Cullen, I—am _so_ sorry. I just—started making the Red-Eye automatically. I didn’t even stop to listen to what Cole stuttered out.”

 

“Dorian, Dorian, it’s quite alright,” Cullen promised, laughing again, though it turned into a yawn. “I’ve been coming here for, what—two and half months, now? A little longer? And I get the same thing _every_ morning. It’s not beyond the pale that I’d ask for the same thing _this_ morning, too. And I would’ve, if I wasn’t so bloody dead on my feet!”

 

Putting away his own mortification and taking another careful look at his weary, blinking customer, Dorian shook his head and set about making the Black-Eye without further comment. As he did, he stole glances at a once-more yawning Cullen who continued to absently sip the Red-Eye.

 

When the second drink was done, Dorian didn’t place it on the pick-up table, but instead leaned past the espresso maker and over the back of the counter, to hand it directly to Cullen. “Really, I _am_ sorry.”

 

“Er,” Cullen said, seeming just a tad confused. He held up the Red-Eye. “But I’ve already got this. . . .”

 

“And now, you’ve got a back-up, as well. On the house, since it was the house’s mistake.” When Cullen started to demur, Dorian gave him a _look_ he hadn’t levelled on anyone since well before Felix passed on. The one that had brooked no arguments that wouldn’t end with _someone_ —someone who _wasn’t_ Dorian—sleeping in the guest room.

 

Seeming bemused, now, Cullen put down his briefcase and accepted the second cup.

 

“Thank you, Dorian,” he said softly, his eyes scanning Dorian’s face with the same wistful intensity with which Krem stared at shapely arses. “That’s . . . very nice of you.”

 

Under that frank, admiring, hopeful gaze, Dorian blushed, as ever, and smiled his most dangerous smile. “Perhaps. But I am, however, _not_ a nice man. I shall expect something of _you_ , in return. A favor for a favor, after all.”

 

“Oh?” Cullen’s right eyebrow quirked in question, as did the right corner of his mouth. “And here, I thought this was altruism. Pity, taken on a poor, old, overworked ex-soldier.”

 

Scoffing, Dorian waved his hand. “You are many things, Cullen Rutherford, but _old_ and _pitiable_ are not any of them.”

 

“ _Another_ compliment? Why, Dorian, you shameless charmer!”

 

With a sniff, Dorian pretended to examine one of the dials on the espresso maker as Cullen chuckled. “All toward a singularly selfish end, I assure you, Mr. Rutherford.”

 

Still chuckling, Cullen placed his Black-Eye and Red-Eye carefully on the back edge of the counter, and leaned a bit closer. “Oh, I doubt it. I’m certain your end is _very_ generous.”

 

When Dorian cast a wry, pained gaze on Cullen, the other man frowned, then blushed as he realized what he’d just said. His immediate, stammering attempts to backtrack were rather amusing and endearing. Like so many things about him.

 

“You’re a _terrible_ flirt, you know? _Literally_ _terrible_ at flirting,” Dorian observed mildly, then bestowed a gentle, almost hapless smile on a miserably put-out-looking Cullen. The other man was glowering down at his coffees impatiently. But that impatience was not aimed at Dorian it was clear. “You know this, yes?”

 

“Yes, I know,” Cullen acknowledged with a rueful sigh. His eyes darted briefly to Dorian’s before focusing back on his coffee. “I’ve . . . been coming here at least five times a week for the past eleven weeks, and I have yet to even ask for a full introduction . . . let alone your current relationship status, phone number, and . . . and perhaps your availability for supper, sometime soon.”

 

Dorian snorted. “Alexius. Dorian Alexius. Charmed to make your acquaintance. And, for the record, I’m _quite_ _bafflingly_ single,” he replied, then added his phone number as well. Cullen gaped up at him, blinking surprise-wide blue eyes.

 

“I . . . wow. Er . . . that was relatively painless,” Cullen murmured, then repeated Dorian’s number back to him verbatim. Impressed, Dorian nodded.

 

“That’s some memory.”

 

“I’ve, er . . . got a mind for numbers and patterns. I’m all left-brain, me.” Shrugging, Cullen grinned at Dorian, bright and more than a little smitten. Dorian smirked.

 

“Good to know,” he said, then levelled a sharp look at Cullen. “Now, as for that favor you owe me. . . .”

 

“I’m all yours. Whatever you want,” Cullen said in his low, earnest voice, his blue-sunshine eyes very intent and more direct than ever. Dorian waited for stammering and backtracking—for looking away. But when he didn’t get it, he smiled and cleared his throat.

 

“Yes, well.” Dorian hummed for a few moments, his face aflame and his mind awhirl. “Do you enjoy pasta?”

 

“Very much, yes.”

 

“Drenched in iffy, but home-made marinara sauce?”

 

“Is there any _other_ way to enjoy it?” Cullen’s grin was practically incandescent, now.

 

“Excellent. Because tonight, I’m planning on making _far_ more of both than any one man can safely eat. I could certainly use some assistance in getting rid of all those carbs . . . one way or another.” Dorian held Cullen’s bright blue gaze with his dark gray one. “Perhaps give me ring later, and . . . let me know if you have any ideas on how you might help me with that. And if you’ve the time and energy, of course.”

 

“It just so happens I _will_ ,” Cullen said firmly, that crooked, boyish, beaming grin deepening. “I can, er, text you as soon as I get to the office—which, oh, bloody hell, I should really be at, already. _Shit_ ,” Cullen growled, then scowled, and Dorian smirked and bit his lip. It was no surprise when Cullen’s eyes dropped to follow that small motion, flickering and flashing rather heatedly. “Bloody _hell_ , Dorian, I _really_ hate my job, at this moment.”

 

“Mm. _I_ hate your job, too, if that helps.”

 

Cullen shook his head and smiled. “It does, actually. Er. Anyway. I’ll text you in a little bit and, um, have a nice day!”

 

“I certainly shall.”

 

Cullen flushed and started backing away from the counter, his eyes still intent on Dorian’s face. “Good, that’s . . . good. Er. Anything I should bring to dinner—?”

 

“Just you, will do. And perhaps a nice merlot,” Dorian added, after a moment of consideration. Cullen’s grin shone out again.

 

“Myself and merlot, it is, then. I’ll, er, see you then, and text you in a bit.”

 

Dorian nodded, and rolled his eyes when Cullen winked rather rakishly, then turned for the door.

 

A few moments later, the other man was hurrying back, his face sheepish and more flushed than ever.

 

“Forgot my, er,” he said, grabbing his coffees and saluting Dorian, whose lips twitched as Cullen headed for the door again. “Good day!”

 

“To you, as well.”

 

Several moments _later_ , Dorian’s twitches became an outright laugh as Cullen dashed back, looking mortified and frazzled, snatched up his forgotten briefcase, then, with a nervous smile, all but ran for the door.

 

He actually made it outside, this time. Then, with a brief pause to glance back into the shop through the spotless plate glass window, he loped off west, as usual, after another coffee-handed salute.

 

Dorian, as usual, watched until the other man was out of sight, and then some.

 

Finally, he reined in his gaze when he felt Cole’s guileless, curious eyes on him. “Yes?” he said loftily, casting a cool, narrow-eyed look down his nose at the boy. Cole smiled and clapped his hands together once, gleefully.

 

“I won the betting pool!” he exclaimed, and Dorian’s mouth dropped open.

 

“The . . . what?”

 

“The bet! On when you would ask out Mr. Rutherford!” Cole informed his employer, then bounced. “Sera bet one month on. _Krem_ bet two, but I bet _three_! And since we agreed to round up, that means _I_ _win_!”

 

For nearly a minute, Dorian could only stare and gape. Then, with a sigh, he shook his head. It wasn’t Cole’s fault, really. It was likely Sera who’d started the betting pool. And Krem wouldn’t have discouraged her, either. Cole was little more than an innocent bystander, dragged into their silliness and insubordination.

 

“Yes, well. Bully for you,” Dorian said snarkily. A few minutes and two served customers later, he found himself far too curious to simply let the opportunity to ask pass. “What, by the way, did you win?”

 

Cole giggled, clearly ecstatic. “I get to move on to the _next_ _round_ of the betting pool!”

 

Dorian made a face. This was starting to sound like something of a scam, of which poor Cole was likely at the losing-end. Also, Dorian was fairly sure he didn’t want to know what a _second_ round of betting entailed. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. “And what, pray tell, are you all betting next?”

 

“Well, I dunno about the others, but Mr. Rutherford seems _very much_ smitten with you, already. Quite smitten, indeed. So, I’m betting _three_!”

 

“Three?” Dorian’s left brow quirked up, though such a non sequitur of an answer from the boy who once answered: “Cole, what time is it?” with: “Oh, lavender, or maybe teal,” was hardly alarming or unexpected. “Three _what_?”

 

“ _Months_ , of course. Until Mr. Rutherford proposes!” Cole clarified merrily, and Dorian’s mouth dropped open again.

 

“ _Fired_ ,” he finally spluttered, his face gone a hot and splotchy red. “You’re _all_ bloody fired! Especially _Krem_ , and _especially_ Sera!”

 

“But. . . .” Cole frowned thoughtfully. “Who’ll refill the napkin dispensers, and creamer and half-and-half urns? Who’ll wipe the smudgy fingerprints off the display cases and take out the rubbish?”

 

Dorian rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air. “Well! When you put it like _that_ , I suppose _you’re_ re-hired, anyway!”

 

“Yay!” Cole cheered, genuinely thrilled. Dorian, meanwhile, hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering when he’d lost all semblance of control over this asylum of a café. “I’m gainfully employed again! And there's going to be a wedding!”

 

“Ugh,” Dorian muttered, just as the phone in his shirt pocket vibrated. Cole was instantly forgotten for the next little while, as Dorian unlocked his phone and checked his message-center.

 

Cullen’s grammar was atrocious and his punctuation nonexistent—not to mention the text itself was positively _littered_ with more emoticons than even a pre-teen girl would bother to use—but the message was clear enough. Cullen was looking forward to that evening and time spent getting to know Dorian in a more . . . intimate setting.

 

Dorian quickly, but carefully replied with his address, the time he expected to serve dinner, and a reminder not to cheap-out on the merlot.

 

The reply to _this_ was exactly _seven_ laughing-with-teary-eyes emoticons, a thumbs-up, and heart-eyes and winking emoticons, respectively.

 

“Ugh,” Dorian lamented again, the corners of his mouth twitching with more repressed laughter. Then he rolled his eyes again, smirked, and—since _only_ Cullen would _ever_ know—responded with an emoticon of his own: two disgustingly saccharine pink hearts revolving around each other. After which, he huffed and hastily shoved his phone back in his pocket.

 

(If the _Imperium_ was an asylum, he had no doubt that he was the _maddest_ inhabitant of all.)

 

And from _somewhere_ , Dorian supposed, _Felix_ was watching and smiling down at him with fond amusement, as ever. Probably _snickering_ , too, the sweet, but impudent sod. But mostly . . . _smiling_. Smiling.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Stitchcasual’s prompt: _Um, try....barista makes customer's usual regular order when they see them coming but today is the one day they decide to switch it up. Flailing and adorableness ensues. Cullen/Dorian._


End file.
